


Dangerous habit, trust.

by nehmesis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5805958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nehmesis/pseuds/nehmesis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trust is a dangerous habit. Especially when you don't know who to trust.</p><p>James Moriarty's hatred for the Moran family makes him go on a mission to wipe it out entirely. Now it's Sebastian Moran's turn to get killed, but something is going to change -will this hatred begin to fade?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One,

In the darkness of the night, the drivers became anonymous. All you could see was the nearly-blinding brights of the cars, their glow blurry and threatening, and sometimes the faintest of silhouettes peering at you behind steering wheels. You’d think a man like me would learn to be fond of it, the chance of anonymity, to slip around corners being nearly invisible, but no. I preferred to see who I was facing. Afraid of the dark? My shaking hand on the gearstick could suggest it. But no. I was James Moriarty. I had a reputation.  


Strange thing, a funeral at midnight. Especially when the killer was invited. That bastard had to know; no one hated the Morans as much as I did. No one wanted to kill Augustus Moran more than me. And yet, his son would give me the pleasure of watching his body descent in the earth to become one with the worms. Augustus Moran would no doubt be best friends with them. He had the stinky fucking soul of one.  


I pulled up outside the cemetery. My car groaned as I opened the door –it always did that- and I let the darkness swallow me wholly as my feet found ground. My dark blue suit made me almost unrecognisable from my surroundings; I hated that. I should have put the red one on. I wanted to be distinguished to the human eye.  


I hummed a tune I heard on the radio seconds ago as I began to walk to the grave spot. Was this the right way to call it? I wouldn’t know. I was too busy to attend my parents’ funerals.

  


A slight gasp came out of my mouth as I sensed the dead hang around in the air, their presence heavy like a burden you couldn’t lift. Screaming, pleading, suffering. I hated it when my mind did that. I was afraid I was starting to act like Moran’s son. I shook it off and moved on.  


A small crowd was gathered around the black coffin, hands tied together in front of them, all eyes at the coffin. It wasn’t right to do otherwise, but as I approached I kept my hands inside my pockets and my gaze fixed at my shoes. If Moran thought I would behave in his father’s funeral, oh how wrong he was. I only came to spit at the cursed dirt that would cover him.

  


When I glanced up, I found him staring at me. A strange fire glowed in those icy eyes –intimidating, though still not enough to intimidate me- and rumours had it his heart matched them. I would find out soon enough.

  


I did not give him the pleasure of the smirk or even a stare longer than three seconds to make him think I acknowledged his attention and let my gaze drop on the priest. So a man like Augustus Moran believed in God, then. Too bad no one was there to save him when I cut him open. And if there truly was Heaven and Hell, he’d no doubt end up in the latter, as the Devil’s left hand. The place for his right hand was well secured for me.


	2. Two,

Sebastian Moran had made up a pretty pathetic name for himself: Mental Moran, Demented Moran, Insane Moran. I couldn’t pick my favorite; they all tasted delicious in my tongue. They said he had strange visions, that he could see the dead hanging above your head, their presence lingering and persistent and demanding, and that he could see the walls of his grandfather’s mansion bleeding the blood that was spilled there decades ago. How did I know? Just like everyone else, I checked the ingredients of my next meal before eating it.

The Morans always treated their sons like the bastards they were. Beating, burning, whipping were just parts of a common day in the Moran household. They didn’t want their sons to grow up like men but like hounds, that could endure, forbear, not even wince at the pain. In other words, they focused too much on the body and not the mind. If someone got to you through your mind, turn it against you, your body limits were absolutely useless. _Ding dong, you lost._

Though today was Belting Sunday (how fucking ridiculous), Sebastian Moran didn’t have a single bruise on his disgusting face. His body had healed itself so many times rumours said he was a walking wreck; if he were to strip off his clothes and stand naked in front of me I would see the marks of countless stitches where the whip met skin, broken legs, arms, ribs, fingers- it was destroyed and remade, destroyed and remade. Demolished and rebuilt. I heard he had to have two plastic surgeries on his knees because the skin couldn’t heal itself anymore. Since I killed his father, I spent a great deal of time finding out things about Moran the youngest. His life wasn’t nearly as interesting as his father’s.

If what they said about his visions was true, I knew that by now he could see the glowing hatred burn in the pit of my stomach. I knew he wasn’t fooled by me. I had used his father’s mind against him and his body in my defence. I was a manipulator, and he was one of the very few who knew.

The coffin slowly opened, revealing Augustus Moran’s porcelain white skin. A few gasps echoed to the place I was standing, and I remembered: Moran’s body was missing a leg. I had dark Belgian chocolate stuffed with liqueur that night and felt particularly naughty. Now that Moran had seen it, I’d no doubt attach and send a clear, well-lit picture of it to his e-mail. Oh, how I loved black humour.

The priest kept the coffin open as he spoke, inviting people to step forward. But if any of the Morans were masochistic enough to mourn and cry over their father’s death, no one dared take a step. I didn’t blame them. Call me insensitive, but I would fall to my knees laughing. 

No one stepped forward until the priest stopped talking and closed his book. Two pale men in black suits approached, closing the coffin’s lid. Their dirty blonde hair suggested they were Morans; the strength of their arms as they easily lifted the coffin confirmed it. They were not older than sixteen. Not a single trace of a tear stained their beastly faces as they lowered the coffin down on the dirt, and disappeared in the shadows again. I knew they were there, their eyes were glowing in the dark: awaiting, languishing. Starving.

People slowly started to walk away; their duty was done, and they did not try to hide it. Formalities were a luxury when you were one of us. The people around me were gone, leaving me exposed and letting me gather much more of the remaining attention, so I remained pinned to the ground. My gaze trailed to the coffin, the priest, the people, until I finally let it land on Sebastian Moran. He was already watching me, carefully, thoroughly, like a crow. I did not dare look away; right now, it was only between us two. If I was meant for Hell, let it be Hell. I despised him and he despised me. I hated him and he hated me. It was time to see who hates best.

No one looked away. Looking away would mean losing, surrendering. His lips curled to a smirk. Something inside me twisted.

Then something hit my head, and I fell to my knees. My ears ringed from the bang or the pain of the impact. The last thing I saw was my blood on the cement, and then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked that one!


	3. Jim is coming for you.

A terrible smell crushed my nostrils. I sniffed, and my eyes opened wide. The first thing I saw (was forced to see) was the ceiling. Black, damp, its edges eaten away by the years that passed. I gave myself a moment before facing my captor, a moment to gather my thoughts. I was tied, for my arms and legs would not move and I felt the friction of rope against my ankles and wrists. They would no doubt leave bad blotches. I did not have to look at the man before me to know that he worked for Sebastian Moran.

“I smell rats” I said as I frowned, sniffing. My voice echoed in the room.

“There are no rats here, mr. Moriarty, I assure you”. When I looked at the source of the voice in front of me, my eyes met with the starving eyes of one of the boys who carried the coffin; his face, too, was untouched.

“There’s one” I said, and the boy growled in response, revealing gritted teeth. I knew how to growl too. Bloody animals.

I smiled instead, and heard a snort coming from the left side of the room. I scanned all of it, my eyes met walls, rot, dirt, my blood, but Sebastian Moran really knew how to hide. At last, he stepped out of the shadows in the darkest corner of the room  -more like a warehouse, now that I think of it; I felt the familiar wet air prickling my skin, there was wood everywhere- and when his eyes found mine, they were colder than ever. _He’ll kill you for it_ , the weaker Moriarty screamed, and it tore up my insides. I refused to believe him. He was always wrong.

Sebastian Moran took large steps forward, a sign of dominance (though he was already the dominant one in this room, wasn’t he? Unless he was trying to convince himself he had the upper hand), until he stopped in front of me.

“Nice view down there?”

I was thinking –and I didn’t realise that for a few moments my gaze had fallen right on Moran’s crotch. I looked up obviously disinterested and found him staring at me, his eyes glowing with what seemed like anticipation.

“Not much”.

“I’m glad you have high standards, James”. My name sounded more than bitter in his tongue. His grin was a warning, one he always gave his prey before devouring it. It’s impossible to tell apart a wolf from a man if he keeps his chin up and his teeth clean.

I didn’t give him the pleasure of answering –however, the truth was that I could only hurt him in words, if only I knew his weaknesses; even a strong kick on the balls would be answered by a single wince.

My mind was already working on a strategy; I had two knives and a gun, and assuming they had searched me they would have found everything except for the small knife inside my sock. I wriggled my leg to see if it was still there, to feel it, and my face fell as I felt nothing. Clever bastards.

When Moran saw that I wasn’t going to answer, he started pacing the room, the other bastard watching him. He was just playing around now, smelling his meal, imagining the taste of me as he tore my flesh apart between his sharp teeth. We were playing around.

My eyes were firmly stuck on a hole at the opposite wall as he circled me, and when he was right behind me he must have shown something to the other one because it made him chuckle and run his tongue across his teeth.

“Can you just get over with what you want?”

Moran finally stopped a few steps away from me. His suit jacket was stained on the sleeve with what looked like dirt.

“You didn’t make it easy for him, so why should I make it easy for you?”

So it was indeed about his father. I couldn’t pretend not to be surprised, though if I wanted I could, but I wasn’t. He suddenly reached to his back pocket and pulled out a gun – _my_ gun, I thought breathlessly, the unmistakable Smith  & Wesson Model 460V, and tested its weight in his hand for a bit.

“He was pleading. I could hear him, in here”.

He pointed my gun to his temple and closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side. A taunt. The scene flashed to my mind again, bright and irritating, and I closed my eyes to make it go away. Augustus Moran didn’t stop pleading, didn’t stop cursing, spitting, promising. But I had smiled, because even if I was his God, I wasn’t there to save him.

“Sometimes you can’t keep your soft little hands away James, can you?”

He suddenly opened his eyes and I saw anger crush through his face, a mighty explosion that left it distorted with rage. He played with the gun in his hands again, turning and twisting it, enjoying the feel of it, and finally lifted it and pointed the barrel between my eyes. I kept my face blank. A wolf of his kind would not stop until his prey was nothing more than a wreck begging for him to eat it.

He stepped forward and with his other hand he grabbed my hair so hard a grunt escaped my throat, and threw my head back so I could look into his eyes. Black spots danced in my vision, and my head started to throb. His voice was almost a growl and his breath rough when it struck my face.

“This is your first warning, James”.

He let go, and the air still smelled like orange flavored gum when he stepped back. He gestured for the other one to follow, and together they walked out the small warehouse, their steps having to fade away completely until I realised that they had left me tied and helpless.

Only then did I realise that Sebastian Moran had left my knife a few inches away from my feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhh i can't wait for u to read what's coming next


End file.
